The Bruise

A shade of amethyst
but duller.
It hurts to look
and the hand quivers at the touch.

It wishes to have hidden better.
Somewhere clothed.
Somewhere between the dark crevices of the cavities.
No such luck though.
It is adorning the crowning jewel, isn’t it?
As if the frontal lobe took it personally and pushed back.

These gems all have their own unique stories.
Just like Tolstoy once spoke of unhappy families.
Then how would one describe this masterpiece?
A fall?
A misstep?
A push?

Every day, little by little, it wanes away.
A gradual fade.
Is it sinister that she wishes she could slow it down?
It almost comforts her.
Her only friend in the world.

But like all precious things, it goes away.
With it, her pain forgotten.
His actions buried.

Until next time.
Until the amethyst blooms again.
Until her only friend returns.